The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of
by ValleyA
Summary: Peter and the gang get together for a friendly game of cards.


**"The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of"**

**by valleya**

"I'll take two cards, but make 'em good ones," Strenlich said tersely.

The group playing poker at Blake's dining room table groaned as one. "Geez, Chief, you're cleaning us out here. If your cards get much better, we'll be signing over our cars just to pay you off," Skalany remarked grumpily.

"Not my car," Peter said simply as he stood and headed toward the kitchen. "Anyone need another beer?"

"No, thanks," Blake answered quickly, and then added with a smile, "I'm going to keep a clear head. I intend to come out ahead in tonight's game."

Skalany chuckled. "Blake, you say that every game and you've yet to come out the high winner. Have a beer. Please."

Raising a finger, Blake leaned closer to her. "There's a first time for everything, Mary Margaret," he said quietly, and then a hint of mischief came into his eyes. "But maybe I'll have a beer, just in case you're right."

The others tossed beer requests in Peter's direction and soon he came back to the table balancing a tray full of beer bottles and mugs.

"Peter, you angel of mercy, you've read my mind and had my beer waiting for me," Kermit said as he and Paul entered the apartment.

"No, I don't do mind reading," Peter muttered, perhaps a little too quickly. "That was my father's thing, but you're welcome."

Peter gave a slight shake of his head in surprise of what he'd just said, and then noticed Paul's quizzical expression. "Sorry, I don't know where that came from," he whispered to Paul, suddenly embarrassed enough to offer an explanation.

Peter sighed as he recalled the amazing things his father used to do back at the temple, including what looked to be mind reading, but that just wasn't possible. He frowned, briefly wondering how much had been childlike awe at the amazing feats of his father and the other priests. Everything had seemed so real at the time, but now it was impossible to know for certain.

Paul closed the door to the apartment, drawing Peter from his thoughts. Paul then approached him, stopping to pat him on the shoulder. "Peter, it's not a crime to think about your father," Paul said softly. "Doesn't matter if he's been dead for fifteen years or five minutes, the man was your father."

Peter fidgeted for a moment as Paul nodded a silent greeting to the others. Paul removed his jacket and began to roll up his shirtsleeves as he typically wore them at work. His cell phone rang before he could sit down and he pulled it out with a sigh, stepping into the kitchen for his conversation.

Meanwhile, Kermit had already shed his jacket and grabbed a beer off Peter's tray. He sat down at one of the empty spaces at the table, glancing up at Peter, who was still holding the tray with a towel draped over one arm. "Peter, I believe you've missed your true calling. You would have made a wonderful waiter."

Peter handed him an iced mug with a great deal of flourish, hamming it up for the others before he grinned. "I am a man of many talents, Kermit."

There was some snickering as Janice Morgan and Mary Margaret exchanged knowing glances. "Yeah, that's what all the girls say," Skalany said with a raised eyebrow.

"Hey, hey, hey," Peter protested. "Surely you don't give into idle gossip."

"What's idle? We get it straight from the source... and believe me, there are a _wealth _of sources to draw from, Casanova."

Peter straightened to his full height and shrugged with false humility. "What can I say? When you've got it, you've got it."

"Yeah, they say you've got it, and more," Janice added, looking Peter up and down longingly.

Skalany nudged her with her elbow. "Down, girl, down."

Clapping his hands together, Peter said, "Hey, let's keep this game clean."

Frank chomped on his cigar before flicking away his ashes in a nearby ashtray. "Now that would be a first. Damn, Blake, you're right. There is a first time for everything."

Peter shrugged in defeat as he sat back in his seat and looked at his cards, ignoring the others as they continued to chuckle and make ribald comments. The prevailing mood was light and jovial, a welcomed relief from the intensity of the day's work. Still, he couldn't ignore the quiet ache in his heart that had been with him most of the day.

Blake looked up at Kermit. "Are you in for this hand, or do you want to wait until the next one?"

"I'm ready to play," Kermit said, loosening his tie as he watched Paul return to the dining room.

Paul gave Kermit one sure nod of the head and Kermit smiled knowingly. Both men bought a set of chips from Blake, and then Kermit took another swig of his beer as the surveillance expert quickly dealt them a hand of five cards.

"What kept you two?" Peter asked, rearranging the cards in his hand, curious at the delay.

Paul answered as he tossed his ante into the pot, "I needed some background information on the Forman case in order to request the search warrant."

"Oh man," Skalany grumbled, "That will push back things a good week until requests and paperwork are approved."

Kermit smirked from behind his dark glasses. "A week by normal channels. Ten minutes from a certain detective known to have a way with computers."

"Alleged detective," Paul clarified with a finger pointed into the air.

"Alleged detective," Kermit confirmed with a smile, "but I'm not one to name names."

"Good thing this _'alleged' _detective is not known for leaving cyber-trails back to his place of employment."

"Perish the thought," Kermit chided with a hint of pride.

"So, did you get the search warrant?" Frank asked, looking directly at Paul.

"Is the Pope Catholic?" The unexpected response from Paul brought a flurry of chuckles to the table. He gave a quick smile as he explained, "That was Judge Warner's office on the phone just now, confirming the search warrant. I've got two teams and some black-and-whites headed over there now. It's a done deal."

Blake pursed his lips together, deep in thought before he said, "It will be good to put the Forman case to rest finally."

Again, Paul's cell phone rang. This time, he was moving into the kitchen almost before he answered it. The group watched his departure, suddenly cast into silence. Peter knew they were all wondering if something had suddenly gone wrong with the search warrant.

Kermit pulled his gaze from the kitchen door and glanced around the table. "So, what's the poison tonight? Five card stud?"

Strenlich answered, following Kermit's lead as he forced his attention from the kitchen. "Does a bear crap in the woods?"

There were more chuckles as Kermit smiled smugly. "Just wanted to make sure of the game before I trounce you all with my stunning knowledge of games of chance."

The conversation of those at the table resumed, though in a much quieter tone. Kermit paused, looking in Peter's direction for a long moment before he said, "You're awfully quiet tonight, kid."

Peter didn't react, only shuffled his cards. "Just concentrating on the game."

"So, what's your excuse for being quiet all day at work?" Kermit asked under his breath.

Blake spoke, the deck in his hand ready and he interrupted without any indication of the previous moment's exchange, "How many cards do you want, Peter?"

"No cards for me," Peter said quietly.

The others leaned forward, all frivolity vanishing as they tried to read Peter's expression and body language. Paul paused at the kitchen door as he folded his cell phone closed. He slipped his phone into a pocket and leaned against its frame as he watched those at the table. Peter caught a hint of intrigue in Paul's tired expression, but chose to ignore him. Peter had bigger matters to deal with, like dissuading the pack of wolves now nipping at his heels.

"What? I don't need any cards," Peter said innocently, but he avoided direct eye contact with any of them – most of all, Paul. Instead, he examined his cards with renewed intensity as he murmured, "What's the big deal about that?"

After another moment of studying Peter, Kermit tossed down his cards. "I fold."

His words caused a cascading effect among the others as they evaluated their own cards.

"He could be bluffing," Morgan said with narrowed eyes as she stared in Peter's direction.

"Could be," Skalany agreed, glancing back down to her own cards before looking back to Peter.

The silence was deafening before the others discarded their cards in unison.

"Ah, come on, guys, you can't be serious," Peter asked with one hand stretched out.

Kermit leaned back in his chair. "Peter, I've told you before that undercover work isn't your strong point. There's a reason for it. People can read what's going on inside you like it's printed on your forehead with big, bold letters."

"Sheesh," Peter groused as he tossed aside his cards, reaching to pull in the pot he'd just won by default.

Skalany beat Morgan to retrieving Peter's abandoned cards. "What did he have?" Janice asked with intense curiosity.

Mary Margaret looked at the cards before her glance darted up to Peter. As a distraction, Peter gave his full attention to arranging his chips in neat orderly stacks in front of him.

"What?" Morgan asked again, her evident exasperation growing.

"A pair of twos," Skalany replied in a slightly awed tone.

There was another collective groan from the group. Breaking through the groans was a heartfelt laugh from Paul, and then he tipped his beer in Peter's direction in a silent salute. Blake put his fingers inside one corner of his mouth and pulled it like it was a fishhook.

Strenlich stood and went to a counter top filled with snacks and gave Kermit an angry glare before repeating, "Apparently, there is a first time for everything. Kermit, you're slipping."

Kermit shrugged. "No, Peter's just becoming wilier. Guess all my training is finally paying off."

"You've been here two months, Kermit. Just how much training could you get in with that short time span?" Strenlich groused, "Not to mention the fact Peter can barely type, let alone navigate on a computer."

Kermit sat upright from his slightly slouched position with a distinct look of dismay on his face. "You're right, Chief. It has been two months today and I've yet to teach Peter all my tricks. He should be able to single-handedly take on a small attack force by now. Yep, I'm definitely slipping."

"Very funny, Griffin, but we aren't talking computer games here. We're talking real life-and-death on the job stuff that you know and Peter doesn't."

Kermit's expression darkened and his voice was low as he whispered, "So was I."

"Okay, Kermit, turn it down a notch," Paul said as he sat down wearily.

Peter took Paul's cue and decided to lighten the tone of the conversation. "Well, joke all you want, guys, but I still came out ahead here," Peter said, then looked in Paul's direction, not happy with what he saw. He read signs of trouble in Paul's tense body language and asked, "Bad news, Paul?"

Before Paul could answer, Skalany jumped in with a question of her own, "The Forman case didn't go sour, did it?"

Paul shook his head. "No, nothing like that."

He shifted toward Peter, a slight line of worry creasing his forehead. "It was Annie. Kelly had a little fender-bender, but she's okay. Your mother made it very clear that if we left the game early to go home before she has Kelly in the right frame of mind, we might as well plan on sleeping on the porch. Seems she thinks that you and I intimidate Kelly when it comes to her style of driving."

"It's called defensive driving... for everyone else on the road," Peter quipped before studying Paul a little longer. He swallowed, relieved to find the knot in his throat gone, then he asked, "But she's not hurt?"

"No, not even a scratch or bruise – well, maybe a bruised ego, but she's fine."

Peter sighed with relief.

Kermit gestured toward the chips on the table. "Come on, how about some poker? I've got to recoup my losses."

Strenlich groused, "You only played one hand."

"Yes, but it might be a sign of a disturbing trend, one that I intend to reverse quickly."

When Kermit hid a yawn behind one hand, Skalany reached out and touched Kermit's forearm. "You do look tired tonight, Kermit."

Slipping his arm away from her fingers, the ex-merc cast aside her concerns. "Not tired, just didn't sleep well last night."

Strenlich sat back down with a big bowl of corn chips and a can of bean dip. "Bad dreams keeping poor little Kermit awake?" he teased.

Out of the corner of one eye, Peter watched Paul. The police captain was watching Kermit's reactions so intently that Peter found his gaze shifting over to the ex-merc. The fatigue in Griffin's face seemed to grow for a moment before he shrugged it off. "No, just old battles replaying in my dreams."

Skalany leaned forward, apparently trying to lighten the mood again. "But that's only fun if you win."

"Dollface, I always win," Kermit quipped before turning serious. "The only problem with war is that, in the end, no one wins."

Paul nodded in agreement, and then took a long draw on his beer. Peter took advantage of the momentary silence and reached over to turn up the volume of Blake's stereo system. "Come on, guys, this is supposed to be where we come to relax, not get depressed."

Skalany shook her head gently. "Sorry, let's not talk about nightmares – but, dreams, on the other hand, can be fun."

"I'll tell you what I dream of," Strenlich muttered as he took the first cards Blake had dealt to him. "A decent cup of coffee at work."

Kermit smirked. "That's no dream, Frank. That's pure fantasy."

Blake looked up at him, stricken with dismay. "Hey, I take exception to that comment!"

"Take whatever you want, but give me a good cup of coffee," Strenlich retorted.

Blake shook his head, taking the teasing in his typical good-natured way. Mary Margaret laughed. "Okay, Blake, it's your turn. What's your fantasy? Come on, you can tell us."

Blake glanced downward shyly before answering. "There is one thing..." He paused for a moment before continuing, "I've always wanted to take a cruise around the world, stopping at the exotic ports and moving along at a speed where you can appreciate the scenery as you go. I've been all over the world, but I've only seen a small part of it thanks to planes and rapid transport."

The detectives around him nodded appreciatively. Blake looked to Strenlich. "What about you, Chief? What wish would you like to have fulfilled?"

Strenlich shrugged. "I've got most everything a man could ask for. A loving wife, three daughters who are healthy, happy, and beautiful. A job where I work with people I respect – for the most part. I always wanted to get my pilot's license, but never quite found the time. It's a dream that will probably never come true, but that's okay. Sometimes, dreams are better left as dreams."

He turned in Morgan's direction. "What about you, Morgan? What's your deepest fantasy?" He didn't let a moment pass before he added, "Uh, remember, Peter wants to keep this game clean."

Frank leaned forward and winked with a devilish gleam in his eyes. "Never mind about Peter, tell us your deepest, darkest fantasies."

Janice grunted before giving him a put-upon grin, "You're really sick, Chief, you know that?"

Kermit jumped in with a wolfish grin, "We all know that, Morgan, but go ahead and answer him anyway."

Janice's gaze grew chagrined before she started speaking. "You guys are gonna laugh at me."

"No, we won't. We promise," Skalany said, giving the others a stern look.

"Yes, you will, but that's okay, I'll tell you anyway." She smiled past her embarrassment, plunging ahead with typical Morgan recklessness. "I always wanted to be a nun, but as I grew up, I realized I'd be missing on something prayer couldn't make up for," she said with a wicked grin.

The guffaws from the guys were only topped by Mary Margaret trying to suppress the urge to laugh, finally erupting into a terrible case of the giggles.

"Told you that you'd laugh," Janice said, starting to giggle herself. "It's no biggie actually. I know in my gut being a nun never would have brought me the same kind of satisfaction that bringing in scum like Mortensen did last week."

She licked her lips, and then turned to Paul. "I'm interested in hearing the Captain's secret dreams."

Paul smiled as he gazed at his cards, and then scratched his forehead in thought. Peter knew that look, and leaned forward in his seat, anxious to hear Paul's answer. "I've always dreamed of a simpler life. I think in a past life, I must have been a riverboat captain or a farmer. Some days, I think I would be perfectly happy to settle down and work off the land."

Peter grunted. "Yeah, that would last about two minutes before you'd be looking for a local injustice to right."

Paul flashed Peter a smile that told him he'd nailed the issue succinctly. "Yes, well, it would be nice to try – at least for two minutes."

Blake finished dealing the cards. "Has everybody anted up?"

His answer came in the form of several nodding heads. "Okay, Skalany, how many cards would you like?"

"One," she answered simply.

Morgan looked to Kermit as Mary Margaret took her card. "What's your fantasy, Kermit? And it has to be a real one, not something designed to answer one question with another question like you love to do."

Kermit moved the cards around in his hand, looking to Blake as he held up two fingers. "I don't fantasize and I don't bother with dreams. We create the situations we need to in order to get what we want. Some people are stuck wishing their lives away while others make it happen. I prefer to make it happen."

Blake turned to Peter with the deck of cards in his hand ready to pass along the requested number. Instead, Peter shook his head and tossed all of his cards back to Blake. "Nah, nothing to work with in this hand, and I have a feeling bluffing won't work for me this time. I need some air. Deal me out of the next hand."

He picked up his beer and wandered out onto the balcony of Blake's apartment, surprised to find it filled with several types of potted rose plants, all of which were blooming in a spectacular array of color.

The heavy scent of roses clung to the night air and Peter gratefully inhaled their rich aroma. He listened to Skalany as she began speaking. "My lifelong dream has always been to become a prima ballerina. Unfortunately, I was born with two left feet. Let me tell you, it's a definite impairment when it comes to entering the field of dance."

Her sarcastic revelation made Peter smile despite the melancholy mood that had settled over him as the others continued to discuss their dreams and fantasies.

No one sitting at the table knew of Peter's history with dreams, except Paul, who had sat up many a night when Peter first came to live with them, seeing firsthand how many of Peter's dreams were really nightmares.

But Peter had rarely alluded to the content of his most impossible dream, the one involving a treasured reunion with his father. Never mind the fact that the man had died over fifteen years ago. No, that was never a hindrance to Peter in that dreamscape.

_*Man, talk about dreaming the impossible dream,*_ Peter chided himself as he hitched a leg up on one of the planters' before him and peered out at the distant harbor lights slowly vanishing behind a thick cloak of fog stealing across the harbor.

He heard the sound of someone clearing their throat behind him, and then Paul's soft voice as he said simply, "You disappeared before we got to hear of your dream, Peter."

Peter grunted, but said nothing as he took another sip of his beer, again mesmerized by the twinkling lights. A foghorn sounded, echoing in the night with a forlorn and lonely call that went unanswered. Somehow, it seemed to remind him of himself, as his heart called out to his natural father in his waking hours, but never receiving a response like the ones he got in his dreams.

"Peter?" Paul stepped closer. "Are you okay tonight, son?"

Peter knew he couldn't evade Paul forever. The man knew him better than any other living soul, but there was no reason to burden him tonight with a simple case of the blues.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Paul. Just needed some air."

Paul didn't pry. It wasn't his way. Instead, Peter watched as he stepped up beside him, looking out in the same direction as Peter. They stood like that for a minute before Paul spoke again, "It's a little chilly to be out here tonight without a jacket, don't you think? Unless you prefer the cold, instead of talking about dreams."

Peter smiled sadly as he took another sip of his beer. "We all dream, Paul, that's what make us human."

Paul put a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Yes, but for some, dreams aren't always a good thing. You've had more than your share of the bad side of dreaming, son."

Peter nodded and set his beer on a small table, and then folded his arms across his chest, shivering slightly. The gesture didn't go unnoticed by Paul, who rubbed his hand across Peter's shoulder in a futile attempt to warm his son.

"Was that shiver from the cold or the dreams?"

Peter shrugged in reply, still unable to meet Paul's penetrating gaze. Another unanswered blast of the foghorn drew his attention before Paul's presence pulled him back. Peter spoke without looking at Paul, his voice distant even though he didn't mean for it to. "Does it matter?"

"It matters to me, Peter," Paul said, turning his head, trying to catch Peter's eye. "It matters because one I can correct by giving you a jacket or bringing you inside. The other leaves me helpless, because dreams are beyond my control."

Peter turned to Paul, searching for those blue eyes that told so much with a single glance. "They aren't all bad, Paul. In fact, it's the one that feels so good that hurts the most."

Peter's gaze darted downward with his revelation, only to feel Paul's hand cup his chin and lift his face upward.

"What dreams are those, Peter?"

Peter swallowed and pulled away, leaning against the balcony railing as he tightened his arms around his chest. He opened and closed his mouth for a moment, not quite sure how to explain himself. Sensing Paul moving closer, he just closed his eyes and started, "I – I have this recurring dream where my father is actually with me again. He's alive somehow – I never remember exactly how it is that we met up again, but when we are together, it's like we've never been apart."

Paul had his hands in his pockets as he listened and Peter could hear the distant sound of change being jingled in Paul's pocket. That was always a sign that Paul was thinking – and that he was a bit nervous.

"How often do you have this dream?"

"Often enough."

"Why haven't you ever mentioned it before?"

"Because I didn't want to hurt you by letting you think I wanted to be with him instead of you and Mom. Because I didn't want you to think I was crazy. Because..."

Peter saw Paul's body tense as he spoke, making him regret he'd even mentioned the dream, but he couldn't stop talking for some reason. "...because I was afraid if I spoke of them, they'd stop."

Paul put an arm around him, and Peter felt his tenseness slip away as Paul increased the embrace to include both arms. Peter responded by tightening his hold on Paul as he squeezed his eyes shut. "Sometimes, I still miss him so much, it makes me wonder if that ache will ever go away," he said in a hoarse whisper.

"No, Peter, it probably won't, but then again, I wouldn't want it to."

Puzzled, Peter pulled away. "What do you mean?"

He searched Paul's expression for answers and Paul brought a hand to Peter's cheek. "He was your father, Peter. He will always hold that special place in your heart. That's probably where your earlier comment came from, the one that surprised you when you said it."

Peter swallowed and shook his head, pulling away from Paul's touch as if he didn't deserve the love behind it. "You don't understand, Paul. Yes, I lost Pop way too early in life... but then, you took me into your home and I wasn't alone anymore. It just seems... ungrateful to be stuck in the past when I have a wonderful father like you around."

Paul beamed as his eyes watered with pride, and then his chin quivered slightly. He brought his hand to Peter's cheek again and patted it softly. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came from him. Finally, he shook his head and brought Peter into another hug.

"Ungrateful?" Peter heard Paul whisper into his ear, "Never, son. You have never spent an ungrateful day with us."

Peter found himself without words, too, but before he could try to speak, he felt Paul pull away reluctantly. Paul's blue eyes were locked onto his gaze when Peter looked up at him. "But that does explain your quiet demeanor today."

Peter ran a hand through his hair, looking out on the dark horizon again. His voice was soft as he said, "Sometimes, it feels like he's taking a walk through my memories and there's nothing I can do but go along with him."

Paul's hand felt warm against his chilled skin as he leaned closer. "Peter, there's nothing wrong with dreams like that. And nothing wrong with sharing them. They are honest feelings, so that makes them true. We should never let go of those kind of dreams, however illogical they may seem, for they give us hope and strength for the future. It's the stuff dreams are made of."

Peter studied him quietly for a long moment. "Maybe, you're right, Paul. Maybe it is the stuff that dreams are made of – all I know is I'm one lucky guy who should appreciate a good thing when I've got it."

A loud bellow interrupted their father-and-son conversation, and reminded them they weren't alone. "Are we here to play cards or what? Next thing I know, you guys will be pulling out Ouija boards and telling ghost stories. Geez Louise!" Strenlich growled.

"Guess we better go inside," Peter said with a smirk.

"Yes, it looks like the natives are getting restless."

Peter started to take a step forward, only to be stopped by Paul. He placed a hand on his arm. "Peter, you were right about one thing. Dreams are what make us human. Promise me you'll never write off a dream because of the way you think others expect you to behave."

Peter nodded his head. "I couldn't give up on them if I wanted to, Dad. If only because you and Mom cared so much about a certain wayward orphan that you turned him around and set him on the right path again."

Paul patted Peter on the back and smiled warmly. "And our lives were far richer because of that wayward orphan. Far more than you'll ever know."

They started walking back into the apartment just as Skalany exploded in laughter. "You did what in the Marines, Chief? Oh man, we've been playing the wrong game! We should have been doing _'Truth or Dare' _instead!"

The twosome only shook their heads as they shared a smile. "Why can't we ever just play cards?" Paul muttered with a chuckle.

"Because that's not why we get together," Peter said softly.

Paul nodded his head knowingly. "Come on, let's go break things up before Strenlich starts taking on some of Skalany and Morgan's dares."

Peter chuckled as Paul entered the apartment again. The boisterous voices quieted down some, only to rise again as he heard Paul burst out laughing. Peter wondered what was going on inside, but lagged a few steps behind him despite it.

He paused for one quick glance over his shoulder at the vanishing harbor lights as he heard another blast of the foghorn. He allowed himself a satisfied smile when he heard a distant ship answer the foghorn from somewhere in the oblique darkness.

"Maybe there's something to hope for after all," he whispered, remembering the decades-old memory of his father's loving embrace – and then flashed on the comfort still radiating from Paul's.

_*Life doesn't have to about living fulfilled dreams,*_ he thought before he stepped inside to join the others. _*Sometimes, it can be enough to enjoy a life unfolding that you never even dreamed of,* _he decided with a grateful smile and then proceeded to rejoin the game.

**The End**

1


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